Goblin Market
by electric caterpillar
Summary: Finn and Simon's affection M for disturbing and sexual content.


(!HARD M FOR GROSS SEXUAL HORROR CONTENT! FOR REAL!)

(also probably a work in progress as i don't think i'm satisfied with it quite yet)

* * *

taste them and try:  
currants and gooseberries bright-fire-like barberries,  
figs to fill your mouth,  
citrons from the south,  
sweet to tongue and sound to eye;  
come buy! come buy!

* * *

Simon did not speak. He did not indicate with his eyes or hands his heart. He did not move. He did not breathe.

In fact, it took absolutely all of him to not simply unravel, standing there in the still white diamond stone in his thousand years of sleeplessness and the threadbare gown of his earthly form, eaten by the era into the spare misshapen blueish curl and lobe he hatefully inhabited.

He felt in the exact center of his forehead, exactly between his soured small black eyes a point of simply tremendous pressure, as if the weight of every life he'd altered lay upon him. He wondered if he would cry. His jaw felt too small for his face. How uncomfortable it was. Words surged like vomit in his shriveled gullet, collided with each other and expired with a weak, wondering sound.

Finn was quite dead, Simon saw, and understood the significance of it in some ways. He understood, for instance, that Finn would not ever strike him again.

Finn would not run from him. Finn would not say an unkind word to him again. The minuscule pink child lay in a cooking hot crescent upon the twinkling hearth, sweetly dreaming somewhere far from the hellish clamor of life on this planet, as pliant as a lovely little doll at the hooks of Simon's fingertips.

Simon opened the button of the child's fleece hood and out poured in a maelstrom, overwhelming, that wonderful gold color, the ribbons of bright sweet gloss and glow that flowered in Simon's necrotic claws as summer alighted upon the earth. It smelled so good, that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful hair, Simon did cry, a little.

It was so long. A slip of it was like a drought of hot wine on Simon's hand, slipping and splayed liquidly as he drew it curiously between the long pikes of his teeth.

The ghost of his child appeared, cried weakly at his side, wagging and berating him, flapping ineffectually at his arms. Simon slapped it disinterestedly and when Gunther persisted in distracting him he departed from his vigil for the moment to escort the bleating creature outside of the room.

Finn remained where he left him.

The little tears became large, hard, very painful. Simon felt them crusting instantly into an ugly powder which he swept from his shriveled cheeks on his sleeves. He could not suffer to be awake, to be alive, to be here, touching this little golden-green baby animal, this beautiful thing, this princess.

He sat hard on the floor and merely looked.

Finn did not turn away or question or resist him, quiet as a latent maiden. His sweet round cheek where it met the brilliant white surface of the floor was becoming a little too fair, perhaps a little blue. Simon hastened to turn up the face, marveling at its astonishing softness, the baby-plump resilience of it dimpled about the bone points of his fingers, affected yet only a little by the weather of his house.

Simon wanted to kiss him. He would kiss him and wake him - that's how princesses were woken! - and Finn would love him desperately, devotedly, "with a love that the winged seraphs of heaven coveted her and me," Simon murmured to the quiet child, who he was drawing now with infinite gentleness into the bed of the crook of his arm, and he giggled a little, his horrible insubstantial turbulent laugh which pricked his shoulders in distaste at himself.

Finn did not sneer at his laugh. Finn did not comment whatsoever. He lay absolutely still in Simon's arm - so warm! He would die! - bearing perhaps a tiny smile. Simon saw that the fairy-fine strokes of his eyelashes were a color kin to the wonderful color of his hair, only a little darker, like heaven reflected on the sea.

Finn's fingers Simon put into his mouth and he would have praised God though he had long forgotten the words. Simon's tongue slithered between the amphibian-thinness that joined Finn's fingers, where it encountered the stickiness of sweets the child had recently consumed, into the cheeks of voluptuous palm as warm as the womb, around the pulpy hump that contained the cake of the muscles of the thumb, onto the bone of the wrist rising like an iceberg through the milky sweet meat. He felt the miniature moon of the child's nail tap his long inquisitive molar, a harp string struck.

Simon emitted a moan which imagined made a puff in the air - though of course, it did not. Finn was so good, a good child, a truly good child. He wanted to swallow him whole.

He squeezed the wonderful-smelling warm bundle of baby limbs jumbled between his legs too hard to him. Exorcised, Finn's final inhalation passed over Simon, stirring the silver of his whiskers and nourishing the site of his sore sad heart. Simon did kiss him then, and the flavor of the entirely compliant tiny soft tongue and crinkled tops of teeth made him see stars.

Finn did not wake but his tender pink wet bit of mouth hung now slightly open, as if shocked at Simon's audacity. Simon produced a high, feeble sound which may have been a laugh or desperate cry.

His impulse was to slap the child, very hard, but Simon feared mortally discoloring the dune and posy-pink cheeks and succulent lip - or even knocking the head containing that lovely little face clean off its altar. Instead he wrapped a length of the luxurious Rapunzel hair three times around his fist and crushed it quite hard enough to juice it of its perfume - the jewels beneath Finn's gauzy eyelids he contemplated on his fingertips - the moistened mouth from which the tip of melon-pink tongue was very slowly descending he carefully closed, and kissed again many times.

The dreamy heat of boy flesh was dissipating already, fleeting as snowflakes in spring from under his hands. Simon hurt terribly.

He lifted the hem of the sweater, as a child peeks around the corner of a room he is not permitted in, looked into the soft rotund tummy and breast dressed with a splash of freckles and candy-bright nipples, yet only glanced upon by puberty, a creature between angelic androgyny and human man. There was a hollow above the pubis where Simon imagined he saw the shape of a baby. Heat had pooled in his genitals, fat soft confections cherry-red and white from their timidity of the sun.

Simon felt a strange thirst, a dreadful urgent yearning energetic as vicious insects in his scalp, and it occurred to him if Finn's hair were a little more red, if the pots of baby fat were deposited a little differently on his fine florid little form, he would be too irresistibly beautiful to tolerate.

Simon did hit Finn, then, very hard, and the child's nubile skull flew horribly yielding from his hand, cracking like a gunshot where it met the floor.

A star on the taut thin skin of his temple opened but did not bleed. Simon spread his mouth upon it ravenously. Urgently, he held Finn to him.

"I'm sorry," he cried, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't hurt you! I wouldn't hurt you!"

Finn slept, insensate.

"I love you, Betty," Simon assured her, opening his hands on the beautiful nacreous skin between her collar and her breasts, where he imagined the heat of her throbbing heart serenading him, and drawing up ice out of the thin hard air like curtains around their marriage bed he bowed his head to kiss her.


End file.
